


The Sucker's Bet

by moonyloonylupin



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Cage Fights, M/M, PWP, hello it's me I've arrived in the fandom that owns my soul, not as much action as you'd expect from a fic tagged "cage fights", there's some wall sex, which i know nothing about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 10:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10274804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonyloonylupin/pseuds/moonyloonylupin
Summary: When Foggy agreed to go out with Marci - because, let's be real, she was going to force him out one way or the other - he didn't think she'd take him to a dive. To bet on cage fights, of all things.He's kind of glad she did, though.





	

When Marci sauntered into his office and told him they were going out after work, Foggy sighed, grumbled a bit, but ultimately agreed. He may have had extensive, well-thought out plans to sit in his bed all weekend and watch Netflix, but he guessed it could wait until Saturday.

He might’ve answered differently if she had told them they were going to the basement of some dive – worse, even, than Josie’s – to watch a bunch of sweaty, angry dudes _cage fighting_.

“Seriously? I could watch this on YouTube from the comfort of my own bed. With _free alcohol_ ,” he says as Marci turns away from the bartender and pushes a glass of amber liquid into his hand. He’s surprised she didn’t immediately order shots.

“Oh, come on, Foggy-bear. This is definitely more exciting than a YouTube video. I mean,” she takes a sip of her drink and gestures toward the ring of shirtless men, waiting their turns and spoiling for a fight, “This is high-definition.”

He’s not going to give her the satisfaction of agreeing with her. His eyes roam over exposed muscle, nice arms, toned chests. Some of the men are burlier than others, some with beer guts but truly impressive arms regardless. There’s a tall black man with his arms crossed, shoulders drawing his t-shirt tight. Foggy takes a pull from his drink to cover up his blatant staring, and to avoid answering Marci in words.

Marci catches him staring anyway.

“I feel that. I would climb that man like a tree.” She knocks back the rest of her drink and turns to order a round of shots.

Pulling off his tie and stuffing it into the back pocket of his slacks – he’s going to regret that later, this is one of his good ties, but better to have it wrinkled than stained – he finishes his drink and slams it down as the bartender brings over the shots. Marci throws the guy one of her salacious grins and Foggy snorts.

“What’re we having?” Foggy asks, picking up a shot and holding it to his nose. The smell burns.

“Tequila,” she answers simply, picking up her own shot and clinking them together.

“I hate you.” But he takes the shot anyhow with barely a grimace.

“No you don’t,” she says, and waggles the empty shot glass at the bartender for more.

Foggy turns away to let her do her thing. If she can manage to get him free alcohol out of this, he’ll be totally okay to go home drunk and alone, to deal with his hangover tomorrow in his own shitty bed instead of in her really nice one. He eyes the tall man in the corner again and wonders if he could get something out of this, too.

He’s throwing back another shot when he hears shouting in a corner of the room. There’s a table over there surrounded by people. He can see a large chalkboard hanging on the wall just behind the table, filled with names and numbers and tallies.

“The hell is happening over there?” he asks Marci as she taps his shoulder with another shot. She’s somehow procured an army of tequila shots, all lined up in a row like ducklings. Ducklings that will ruin Foggy’s stomach lining, give him a pounding headache, and make him _incredibly horny_. Evil ducklings.

“Bets.” She divides the shots between the two of them. “I was gonna put up a twenty or something but, y’know, when the crowd dies down. I don’t feel like fighting people just to lose money.”

“We’re betting?”

“Yup. It’s part of the experience.” She takes a shot, places the glass upside down on the bar. “Also, these were free.”

Foggy laughs, loud and happy despite the terrible smell that permeates the bar, and the sticky heat of bodies crushed together in such a small, poorly air conditioned, wooden basement in the middle of June. “Of course they were!”

It takes a while for the huge crowd to disperse, but when it does, Marci pushes a twenty into his hands and tells him to go place their bets.

“Hold on, why am _I_ placing _your_ bet?”

“Because I’m trying to seal the deal here, Foggy-bear, and you’re cramping my style.”

Foggy snorts and goes to slide off his barstool, slightly more off-kilter than he had been four shots ago. He meanders toward the table, weaving between drunken patrons and aggressive looking men who he guesses are waiting for the fights to start.

Foggy’s approaching the table when a guy yells, “What kind of odds are those?” at the woman sitting behind it.

She shrugs and flips her long, dark hair over her shoulder. She pops her gum. “Listen, buddy, if you think his odds are shitty then place your bet on someone else.”

“Why do you even have that guy on the roster?” someone else shouts, and the sea of people mumble in agreement.

The woman shrugs again. “You enter; you get put up on the board. I don’t ask questions. Now place your bets or go away.”

Looking up at the board, Foggy can totally see what the guy means. There are decent outcomes for most of the fighters – 10:1, 5:1, a 25:1 – and then, way at the bottom, is a name that only says “MURDOCK” and his odds.

 _50:1_.

“Jesus Christ.” Foggy hisses, shoving his hands and Marci’s twenty into his pockets.

“Right?” The woman smirks at him, folding her arms across her chest. Most of the other patrons have already left, have already placed their bets and gone back to their booze. Foggy sneaks a look over his shoulder and notices that Marci has finally monopolized the attention of the bartender, much to the disdain of the other people surrounding the bar. She’s even popped open a few buttons on her blouse. Foggy is _definitely_ going home alone tonight. He shrugs. What the hell.

“Twenty on the best one you got,” he hands Marci’s cash over to the woman before digging his wallet out of his pocket. He has a few bills shoved in there, so he pulls out a ten. “And this on the shit one, I guess.”

She raises her eyebrows, but takes his money anyway, smirk still plastered on her pretty brown face. “You sure you wanna do that?”

Foggy shrugs, sticking his hands back in his pockets and rocking on his heels a bit before deciding that's a bad idea and falling heavy back on his soles. The fights haven’t even started yet; no need to face plant so early.

“I figure, my friend’s already seduced the bartender into giving us free drinks. There goes the money I woulda spent on booze.”

She laughs. It’s a nice laugh, soft but firm and Foggy thinks that if he could go home with that laugh, tonight would be worth it. He’s not gone enough to try, but he thinks about it, briefly. He has dreams.

“Fair enough. You wanna see who you just bet on?” Before he can even think about answering, she sits up a little and gestures toward the tall, beautiful man. “Behind Luke, there’s a guy hanging back against the wall.”

Beautiful-tall-Adonis-man’s name is Luke. Foggy files that away for later, glancing back at the board for a second to see if he’s on it. He’s not; at least, not under Luke.

Behind him, a little further in the corner, is a man with messy dark hair, wearing sunglasses and cradling a beer in one hand. His other hand is in the pocket of his hoodie, and there’s a white stick hanging from a strap on his wrist. He’s wearing gym shorts and Converses and there’s what looks like stubble on his chin, but Foggy can’t tell from here, in the mostly-dark of the pub. It takes him a second, but his eyes flick back and forth between the stick and the sunglasses before he sputters indelicately.

“You just let me bet on a _blind guy_?”

She laughs again, head thrown back.

“Hey, you didn’t ask!”

“You’re letting a _blind guy_ enter a cage fight?” Foggy can’t believe this. This guy is gonna get himself killed and everyone in this establishment is just okay with it? What is wrong with the world? Is there no decency?

He needs another drink.

The smirk is back, but this time it’s sharper, more shark-like, and there’s an accompanying glint in her eye. “They enter; I put ‘em on the board.”

Foggy tries not to scowl. It’s only ten bucks; he’s getting free drinks; he gets to see a bunch of fit, sweaty dudes fight. It’s fine. Foggy nods, throwing a smile at the woman from over his shoulder as he heads back to Marci for his share of the shots.

###

Foggy may have bet on a blind guy, but this blind guy can _fight_.

Murdock is insane. It’s hard to believe that he’s even blind at all, but the ref did a whole song and dance about it when people started yelling about it being a gimmick. The guy has no light perception. Nothing. Shined a penlight in his eyes and everything. The ref even snapped his fingers in his face a couple times and he flinched for every single one.

But he’s laying guys out like nobody’s business. Foggy is well on his way past drunk and heading full-speed into full-on plastered. He’s already reasoned with himself that he is going to be in no condition to bring anyone home and has also already decided that he’s going to treat himself by taking an Uber back to his apartment. None of that walking nonsense.

But, _shit_ , this guy is gorgeous.

He took off his hoodie and his sunglasses and has been fighting in a too small t-shirt. He looks impossibly younger without them, but the deft way he wrapped his hands and the definition in his arms and, fuck, even his abs lets Foggy know that this guy – this fighter, Murdock – is anything but a fragile, wilting, flower. And while Foggy knows that there’s no chance of winning, because the guy he put Marci’s twenty on is also kicking ass, Foggy knows he has a decent shot. Every time Murdock lands a punch, Foggy cheers. He’s splashed more than his fair share of whiskey and tequila over his lap and Marci’s shoes, but she’s almost too drunk and enamored with the bartender to care. She keeps yelling in his ear.

“I _cannot_ believe you bet on this guy!” she says.

Foggy shouts back, “I know!” And whoops when Murdock lays another guy out. He goes down in an arc of blood, what looks like a busted nose, and Murdock doesn’t even flinch, hands going back to his face in defense mode in case the guy somehow gets back up swinging. He doesn’t.

“Jesus, this is bloody,” Foggy says around the lip of his drink. They’ve taken a short break from shots, trying to space them out so they don’t puke their guts out before they can get to the last round.

“Isn’t it great?” Marci shouts.

Foggy hums and tracks Murdock with his eyes as he circles the ring.

“I would go home with that,” she says, and the bartender overhears and makes an affronted noise. “Calm down, sweetheart. I’m going home with you, aren’t I?” And she bats her eyelashes at him. Foggy can’t believe that works and yet, of course he can – he fell for it in L1, just like every other guy on the planet presented with her bright blue eyes and gorgeous body.

“ _I_ would go home with that,” Foggy emphasizes as Murdock steps out of the cage, shaking his hands out. Even his calf muscles are distracting.

“Then why don’t you?” Marci chuckles, soft into his ear, and he shivers, makes a wounded noise.

“Because I am not nearly as charming now as I was in law school.”

Marci doesn’t even pretend to entertain the self-deprecation. “Shut up. Drink. If he wins, you’re going for it.” Foggy knows she’s not going to take no for an answer, so he just nods and empties another shot. With a glance back at the board, Foggy is feeling pretty confident that he won’t have to embarrass himself by attempting to pick up a specimen like that. It’ll be totally fine.

Foggy watches Murdock rewrap his hands, watches the way his muscles flex beneath his shirt, which is darkened with sweat. His hair is equal parts sticking to his forehead and mussed up and, _God_ , Foggy wants to lick the shining hollow of his throat. Why did Marci do this to him? The next time she wants to go out, he’s demanding an itinerary.

Murdock cocks his head to the side, as if he’s listening for something, though what Foggy can’t be sure. It’s so loud in here he can barely hear himself think.

And then Murdock turns his head toward Foggy and he could swear that the guy is looking right at him. The fucker smirks and suddenly Foggy is a lot more light-headed than he was a moment ago, and he can’t blame it on the tequila. (He can. He _will_.)

Murdock’s smirk gets wider, and Foggy has to slide off the stool so his pants don’t cut off the circulation to his dick.

###

Foggy just won a lot of money.

Like. A lot.

Fuck if he knows how much. The woman from the betting table walked up to him and just dumped a bunch of cash in his limp, noodle arms and cackled at the look on his face as she walked away. Marci apparently can’t find it in herself to be even a little disappointed that she lost. She just pulls a twenty from his pile and shoves it into her purse.

“Guess what time it is, Foggy-bear,” she sing-songs, helping him stuff the bills into his messenger. His fingers are clumsy and his vision is not the greatest right now, and how can she possibly expect him to talk to a guy that smoking hot now, of all times? Why not tomorrow? Or never, preferably.

“Marce, I can fry an egg on that guy’s abs, that’s how hot he is, he is going to ignore the shit out of me. I feel it. He cannot see it, but it does not make a difference. I should just go home to my bed and my Netflix. I even have money for that Uber I was planning to take.” He knows he’s stalling, but he can’t bring himself to just walk away with his winnings, despite the fact that he knows Marci won’t stop him if he really, _really_ doesn’t want to talk to the guy.

Except he really, _really_ does.

“Oh, please,” she snorts, an ugly, tipsy sound, and rests her elbows on the bar top. “What time you heading out, hun?” she says to the bartender, and when he tells her, she grins, all teeth and spit-shiny lips. “Perfect.”

She turns back to Foggy and pinches his shoulder.

“If you don’t talk to him, he’s going to leave, and you’re going to go home very, very alone and you’re going to wake up hungover and complain. I will not be picking up the phone in the morning, Foggy. You will be alone and _lonely_.”

Well. When she puts it that way.

“Fine,” he grumbles, and drapes his satchel over his shoulder before sidling resolutely away from the bar.

He’s relatively steady on his feet, but only through truly intense concentration and sheer force of will because if he’s going to embarrass himself by actually talking to the guy, he refuses to preemptively embarrass himself just trying to walk to him.

The crowd is a lot thinner now, now that the blind guy’s won and the outrage has been dealt with through a smattering of shots and people being escorted out of the basement. There are puddles of beer and liquor here and there that Foggy works very hard to make his way around. Looking back toward the blood spattered cage, he feels sorry for whoever has to clean up the joint.

As he gets closer to where Murdock is zipping his hoodie back up and raking unwrapped, bloodied hands through his hair in some vain effort to tame it, Foggy notices that the beautiful-tall-Adonis-man – Luke – and the woman from the betting table are standing around him, laughing at something he’s said. When the woman glances over and sees Foggy trying really hard not to look like he’s hovering – he’s just very interested in the particular blood-spatter on this side of the ring – she smiles and hits Murdock’s arm with the back of her hand.

“The poor sucker who bet on you is here. You should say thank you.”

Luke chuckles, a deep, rich sound that rolls through Foggy like the bass through the floor of the club he and Marci used to frequent back in Columbia.

“Don’t be mean, Claire,” he says with a bright smile.

“I’m not!”

“It’s a little mean,” Murdock says, shoving the wraps into a duffle bag and pulling out a towel. He’s wiping his hands clean of blood and tilting his head toward Foggy. “But thank you.” He says with a toothy grin. Foggy can’t help but notice that his eyes crinkle up in the corners.

He’s hot _and_ adorable, which is really, just, not fair at all.

Foggy almost forgets Murdock’s said anything at all until he notices that Luke and Claire are wearing matching, laughing grins.

“You’re welcome! I mean, yea, but, for what?” Foggy asks. Murdock’s smile gets a little less toothy, a little softer, and Luke and Claire each touch his shoulder in a goodbye before heading toward the bar. Foggy watches them go and notices the way Marci’s split her attention between the bartender, Luke-the-Adonis, and Foggy. He wills his face not to do the red, splotchy thing it does when he blushes, and then reminds himself that it doesn’t really matter because Murdock can’t see him.

“For taking the sucker’s bet.”

Foggy laughs, one of his loud, drunken laughs, and he actually doesn’t want to take it back because the toothy, eye-crinkly grin is back on Murdock’s face and even though he’s staring somewhere off to Foggy’s left, Foggy can’t help but notice that the guy has bright hazel eyes. Who cares if they’re kind of blank, because they’re a lot gorgeous.

“I figured I had nothing to lose!”

“Well,” Murdock pulls his cane out from his duffle bag and Foggy notices him hesitate to pick up his glasses case before obviously deciding that he’s better off without them. He zips up the duffle and hefts it onto his shoulder. “Thank you, anyway. Glad I could make you some money.”

“Dude, it is _a lot_ of money.”

Murdock hums, and Foggy suddenly has nothing left to say except " _Wow, you're really hot_ ," which he _does not_ say out loud, thank you very much, but something must read in his aura or whatever, because Murdock's grin turns predatory, a smirk set into his stupidly handsome face.

"My name's Matt, by the way. Matt Murdock." Foggy knows he recognizes that name, but is entirely too drunk to figure it out. It probably doesn't matter. Hopefully he can get the guy - Murdock - _Matt_ \- talking and work it out later. Right now, he has other plans in mind. With a confidence he doesn't feel (and a voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Marci), Foggy puts on his most charming grin. He knows Matt can't see it, but it makes him feel better to do it anyway.

"Foggy," he says, and slowly reaches out, telegraphing his movements and resting his fingertips against Matt's forearm. "Foggy Nelson."

###

Foggy’s hair is caught in the brick wall in the alley on the side of the bar, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit because Matt has his mouth on his neck. Foggy’s going to have some serious beard burn come morning. He can’t wait.

“Shit, Matt,” Foggy gasps as Matt drops his hands to Foggy’s belt buckle. “You wanna do that here?”

He can feel Matt’s grin against his jaw, followed by the scrape of teeth. “No one’s around.”

Foggy’s laugh comes out breathy and turns into a moan as Matt shoves a hand beneath the waistband of his slacks to cup his dick through the fabric of his underwear. Foggy manages to unzip Matt’s hoodie in a last ditch attempt at being useful before he completely gives up, hands going underneath the hoodie to roam over Matt’s broad, muscled shoulders. Matt shrugs the hoodie off and lets it fall to the ground to lay with their bags.

“How would _you_ know?”

Matt laughs into the hollow of his throat. “It’s 3am, Foggy.”

“Good point.” He gets a hand into Matt’s hair, some of the strands clumped together with dried blood and sweat and it should be gross, Foggy should not be as cool with Matt’s freaky fighting powers as he is but, God, he doesn’t care, he does. Not. Care. He pulls Matt away from his throat before he can give him any more hickies and also because he needs those red, red lips on his again. It makes Matt moan. Foggy wants him to make that noise for the rest of his life.

Matt licks into his mouth immediately, pulls Foggy’s shirt up around his waist, and pushes his pants down a little further. Matt spreads his palms wide and low across his stomach and Foggy sucks in, for just a second, before Matt makes an unhappy noise into his mouth, tugging at Foggy’s lower lip with his teeth. He doesn’t say anything though, just pulls Foggy’s dick out from his underwear and gives it a long, languid stroke and Foggy is dead. Foggy has died and gone to heaven, Foggy is the happiest person on Earth right now, literally nothing could make him happier.

Then Matt wraps his hands around Foggy’s thighs and _lifts_ him, his feet actually leave the ground. Foggy throws his head back and it smarts when he hits his head against the brick, but he almost doesn’t even notice.

“Fuck, of course you can lift me. You’re blind and you can beat the shit out of six guys in one night and you can lift me,” Foggy babbles. He’s so distracted by the wave of want that rolls through him from Matt _actually lifting_ him that he doesn’t notice that Matt’s managed to ruck up his t-shirt and push down his gym shorts until Foggy’s rubbing off against Matt’s abs and Matt’s dick is nudging up against his ass.

Matt sucks in a breath through his teeth and gets one arm under Foggy to steady him and uses the other to pull Foggy’s head back down into a kiss.

“I want to fuck you,” Matt breathes into his mouth, and Foggy whines.

“That’s so not fair, dude.” And Matt laughs at him, actually laughs at him, before he grinds into Matt’s stomach and pushes down on Matt’s dick, feeling it slide across his hole, feeling Matt’s precum slick and hot against him. Matt’s not laughing anymore.

His eyes are glazed over, and his gorgeous mouth is open around ragged breaths and soft whines.

“Later,” Matt gasps into his mouth, and Foggy nods frantically, his hand tangled in Matt’s hair to drag him into a kiss. One of Matt’s hands wraps around Foggy’s dick, thumb swiping over the head and spreading the precum down the shaft, and Foggy can feel every callous, every rough bit of skin against the sensitive skin of his dick as Matt jerks him off.

Foggy does his best to grind down against Matt and tries not to think too hard about the way Matt said " _I want to fuck you_ " and " _later_." This guy, man.

Matt's moaning into his mouth, making obscene, gorgeous noises, and Foggy lets himself reciprocate, doesn't bother holding back. They're panting and whining and grinding, until Foggy feels his gut twist up tight and curls his toes in his shoes and shoves both of his hands into Matt's hair and holds on tight as his orgasm crashes into him and yes, _yes_ -

" _Fuck_ yes." Foggy comes against Matt's stomach and wow, isn't that a pretty sight, those washboard abs decorated in his come. Foggy wants to take a picture.

Matt groans and whispers obscenities into Foggy's cheek. Foggy watches as he runs his fingers through Foggy's come and his hand disappears beneath him and, oh God, Matt's jerking off with Foggy's come. He feels his dick stir in renewed interest and he _wants_.

"Fuck, Matt, seriously?"

Matt just makes a small "uh-huh" sound, nodding against Foggy's face before he dives back in to kiss him, whimpering, arms flexing to keep Foggy aloft and jerk off at the same time. Foggy grinds down against him as best he can and swallows all of Matt's beautiful noises and he knows, feels it in his gut, that Matt's going to come.

"Come on, come on Matty, come for me," he says, and Matt _shouts_.

They’re breathing into each other’s mouths, noses touching, as Matt comes down from his orgasm. He still has Foggy braced up against the wall. Foggy can feel Matt’s come cooling against his ass, his own dripping down Matt’s stomach.

Foggy laughs. Matt laughs, too, a little thing, barely a breath.

“So,” Matt asks against Foggy’s lips. Neither of them has bothered to pull away. Foggy thinks if he does then he’ll wake up from whatever dream he’s having. He’s 90% sure he’s dreaming. “Your place or mine?”

“Yours,” Foggy gasps as his softening, over sensitized dick rubs up against Matt’s truly ridiculous abs, holy shit. “Definitely yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck if I know anything about betting or cage fighting, but this came to me in a dream and demanded to be written. 100% not edited because I was excited and impatient.
> 
> Also, hi y’all, here’s my first contribution to the loves of my life.
> 
> I write very infrequently and at the most inopportune times (for example, this was written at work, where I should be editing other people’s books and not writing fic), but feel free to catch me on [Tumblr](http://www.moonyloonylupin.tumblr.com).


End file.
